


An Unfortunate Truth

by owlgal



Category: Cosmere - Brandon Sanderson, Stormlight Archive - Brandon Sanderson
Genre: CFSWF, Canon Compliant, Cinnamon Roll Szeth, Grumpy Old Men, Other, Slavery, Warrior in Hiding, Who know more than they should, farming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 08:40:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24348136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlgal/pseuds/owlgal
Summary: “Well come on then, boy. Help an old man with his load.” Greer snatched the stone out of the Shin man’s hand and turned to head back down the road.“Besides,” Greer muttered under his breath, “best not to leave someone like you standing around for just anyone to take advantage of.”*   *   *In which Szeth gets what he deserves, because he didn't deserve any of this. Written because Szeth is the character I cry about the most. Set in the 5 years after Gavilar's assassination.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 38





	1. Stone

“I am required to tell you,” the young Shin man said softly, “that I am without a master. If you wish to take my Oathstone, you will become my master. There is no other cost.” Greer looked down at the rock the man was holding out, a small stone with iron and quartz threaded through it. The man stood strangely, as if he wanted Greer to take the stone and yet was hoping with all his might that Greer would simply walk on down the road and leave him standing there.

“Oathstone, hmm?” Greer rubbed his beard, scowling. It was his favorite expression. “You a soldier, boy?”

The Shin man tried to hide his flash of surprise, but Greer had spent enough time around boys like him to see it.

“I… No. I am not a soldier.”

“Hmm…” Greer rubbed his beard again. It didn’t seem like the boy was lying, but he’d definitely led a military life of some kind. Greer could tell by the way he held himself poised, relaxed but ready for an attack that was unlikely to come all the way out here. That, plus the Oathstone…

“Well come on then, boy. Help an old man with his load.” Greer snatched the stone out of the boy’s hand and turned to head back down the road towards Littlepeak, the nearest town to Greer’s farm. Nearest, yes, but it was still a three hour walk and at this point Greer was getting tired. 

“Besides,” Greer muttered under his breath, “best not to leave someone like you standing around for just anyone to take advantage of.”

The boy followed Greer without giving any sign that he had heard the comment, trailing him like a axehound pup waiting to be given its dinner. He relieved Greer of several sacks of lavis grain and walked along, matching the old man’s pace. And Greer _was_ old. His bones ached after the morning’s walk, not just his knees nowadays, but his entire body down to his toes. The memories that the boy had stirred up in Greer’s mind felt like dusty old bones, scattered by decades of storms and covered by layer after layer of crem, but still trying to claw their way out of the box he’d shut them in long ago. Maybe later Greer would let them out, but he was too busy right now. Too busy to think. He scowled.

The rest of the morning went swiftly. Greer sold the remainder of the lavis grain he’d managed to hack out of the little patch of leeward rock he called a farm and used the spheres to buy the few things he needed for the next few months that he couldn’t trade for or make himself. A sturdy length of rope, a new rockpick, a little sack of sugar, other tools or spices he would need before the next harvest. All the while the Shin man followed him silently, taking charge of each package Greer bought. Eventually, Greer bought a bolt of cheap cloth. The boy’s clothes had more holes than the rags Greer used to clean out his pots with. He bought them each a piece of flatbread from one of the street vendors once he had all the supplies he needed, covered in a steaming, spicy sauce. His piece had only one tiny chunk of meat on it, barely enough to taste, much less call proper curry. Greer scowled.

The journey back to his farm was much more pleasant with the boy carrying everything. Even three more hours of walking wasn’t so bad when all Greer had to worry about hauling around was his own self. The boy was silent though, and Greer couldn’t decide if he liked that or not. Oh, the boy would answer a direct question, but he certainly wasn’t one to volunteer information, or even make a comment about the weather. Not that Greer minded. He’d decided years ago that having no help was better than having someone around who’d natter about nothing until your ears fell off. But there was a difference between keeping to yourself and the kind of silence the Shin man used like a wall between himself and the world. Greer scowled. This one was going to be tough.

Greer contemplated the boy all evening while he showed him around the small farm. Contemplating. He’d been good at that once, so many years ago that he wasn’t sure if that version of him had existed or if he’d merely invented that man one day. Greer scowled. It had been too long since he’d contemplated anything more than how many worms he’d missed among the polyps. He was out of practice. 

  
* * * * *  
  


Salas had already risen by the time Greer’s crem-clogged brain finally churned out the word he'd been trying to remember. 

“Do you know who I am, boy?” he asked, setting down his bowl of stew so thin it was practically water. The Shin man looked up from his second bowl - he’d eaten the first one fast enough that Greer had told him to get another - then looked back down at the table.

“You are my master,” he said, his voice perfectly steady, his accent clipped but cultured. Educated, Greer thought. “I am to obey any order you give me, although I cannot obey an order to kill myself.”

“No, I- That- Storms, boy! They really make you say that?” Greer tugged on his beard, frowning. The Shin had always seemed so uptight to him. Fascinating and strange, yes, but uptight. Rigid. Brittle. Like a young jella tree that hadn’t absorbed enough crem and was ready to blow over in the next storm.

“Yes,” the boy replied, studying the wood grains on the surface of the table. 

“Hmm…” Greer rubbed his beard, trying to recover the rest of the speech he’d been working on all afternoon. He used to be good at speeches. That was the first thing Melita had loved about him.

“I might have your little rock, boy, but I’m nobody’s master. Not all the way out here on the edge of nowhere.” The boy didn’t answer. Greer scowled. 

“Look boy, what I’m trying to say is that I’m… Ash’s eyes!” He had forgotten it again. What was that word the Shin used? His shoddy memory was ruining the speech. Ah, there it was. “I am he who adds.”

Yes, that was it. Greer registered the Shin man’s flash of surprise, quickly covered by his impassive mask.

“I am he who adds,” Greer continued, more confidant this time, “and while you’re with me, you’ll be adding too. Growing crops, making things, that’s what we do here. And yer to be a part of it, understand?”

“Yes.” The boy’s voice was so soft, so devoid of emotion. Greer’s mind nearly wandered off, trying to figure what kind of a life would make a person talk like that. 

“Now,” Greer continued, scratching at his beard, “It’s obvious that all the ground in this part of the world’s stone, so I can’t help you there. But the house’s got a wood floor so you’ll have wood to sleep on, at least.”

Another flash of surprise at his mention of wood and stone. The boy was too storming easy to surprise. Greer even caught him glancing at the floor, as if he hadn’t noticed what it was made of before Greer had mentioned it.

“Put that in for the wife, about a dozen years ago.” Melita had always liked the feel of wood beneath her feet. Once he’d put the floor in she had gone around barefoot for weeks,dancing through the house the same way she’d always danced through life. She’d said that just having a wooden floor made her feel like a lighteyed lady instead of a farmer’s wife. Greer had asked her why she couldn’t just be both. He scowled. “It might be only thing that justifies calling this shack a house.”

The boy didn’t comment. Greer scowled more. The boy didn’t seem to notice.

“Well, how about we get dinner all put away and find a place for you to sleep, eh? How do you feel about washing some dishes?”

“I am happy to do whatever my master wish-”

“No you’re not, boy. No one cares that little about themselves.” The Shin man kept staring down at the table. Greer sighed.

“Well, I’ve never had my own slaves and I’m too old to start now.” It wasn’t quite the truth, but it conveyed the right sentiment. “You’ll have to get used to being treated like one of the boys I used to have helping out round here, since as far as I’m concerned that’s what you are. Understand?”

The boy gave another soft “Yes,” still looking down at the table. Greer scowled.

“And look up when you talk. I’m also too old to hear what yer mumblin at the floor.” Another white lie, but Greer was used to those by now. They were better for everyone.

“I understand,” the boy said, raising his head and staring at a point past Greer’s shoulder. Greer scowled, but he supposed it was an improvement.

“Well then.” Greer rubbed his beard. “You got a name?”

“I am called Szeth.”

“Szeth-son…” Greer prompted. This time the boy managed to avoid showing surprise. 

“It is just Szeth.”

“Hmm…” Greer rubbed his beard again. Storming itchy thing. “And you can call me Greer. Now let’s see about those dishes.”


	2. Water

Szeth-son-son-Vallano, Truthless of Shinovar, adjusted the rockpick in his hand, hoping to avoid pressing it against this new blister. He failed, and the blister popped, bringing a sudden release of pressure along with a new kind of pain. 

Szeth sighed and stood up straight, tucking the rockpick underneath his arm and tearing a little strip of his shirt off to wrap his finger with. 

The days passed for Szeth, each one just like the other. He spent most of the daylight out in Greer’s fields, clearing away old polyps and digging shallow holes in the crem that had settled onto the stone. Greer said they were getting ready to plant a new crop after the Weeping, which would come soon. All Szeth knew was that he was in a place where no one would ever look for him. No one would come out here, to this little farm hours away from even the smallest town, looking for the now infamous Assassin in White. 

The tension that had wrapped itself around Szeth for months began to loosen. No one would find him here, and Greer didn’t seem inclined to trade him away just yet. So Szeth threw himself into the work, chipping away at the rings of crem that had sealed lavis polyps to the stone beneath, losing himself in the simple repetition. 

Every day was the same as the others; wake up, fry and eat some flatbread, join the sun outside as he gloried his way through the sky, work to clear the fields, finish as the sun went to his little death, boil a pot of stew with some grain and whatever cremlings or herbs they might have caught that day, and sleep. It was dreadful, difficult, backbreaking labor, bent down beneath the sun’s glare as he rose from behind the mountains and set beyond the forest, squinting at stone, chipping away rock for hours on end. Szeth wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else on Roshar - except home, but that was lost to him now.

Greer cursed as his rockpick jumped out of his hand instead of chipping off the lump of crem he’d been aiming for. The old man worked a few rows down the slope from Szeth, trying to finish clearing this field before the Weeping would make the work miserable. Szeth watched as his master picked up the offending rockpick, scolding it like it was a naughty child.

Greer was an odd man, even for a stonewalker, but all of Szeth’s masters were odd in one way or another. Szeth no longer spent much time considering his masters. They were like the highstorms, passing through his life at random intervals, beyond his control, often leaving something broken in their wake. Something to endure until his punishment was finally over. And like a highstorm, each of Szeth’s masters was much like the others. They chose him because they liked having someone to order around, and they gave him away when he became too strange.

They said he was unnatural, too quiet, too much like a lighteyes or a noble, too hard working. Szeth could have done more to fit in with the stonewalkers of course - change his accent or speech to sound more like them, adopt a posture more like theirs, speak more freely about things of no consequence. But such ideas felt like a betrayal of everything he had ever learned or become. Szeth might be Truthless, exiled to wander the world alone, subject to the whims of anyone who held his Oathstone, but he was still Shin.

But there _was_ something different about Greer. He was using this farm to hide just as much as Szeth was. Out of all the stonewalkers Szeth had called master, Greer was the only one who seemed to understand what he was doing when he took Szeth’s Oathstone. He had dropped hints that he knew far more about Shinovar than the superstitions and folktales that were passed around the rest of Roshar. But it was obvious that the man was hiding a great many things - from himself as much as from Szeth. 

Szeth had been surprised to find, when he awoke in the man’s hut that first morning, that the man’s eyes had bled from a muddy brown to a bright green color. He’d stood shocked for a moment, wondering madly if the man somehow had another of the Honorblades, but Greer had muttered something about eyedrops wearing off and told Szeth not to worry about it. Szeth did his best. Greer’s mannerisms and way of speech changed as well, fluctuating between a rural farmer, born of crem and bred to stone, and a knowledgeable lecturer who reminded Szeth of his own teachers from long ago. The man’s eye color didn’t matter to Szeth, of course, but he did wonder what could have convinced Greer to leave the halls of power where he’d obviously been born in favor of these stoney fields and backbreaking labor. 

Szeth’s master was in fine form today, scowling enough to threaten a storm and muttering curses at the rocks as he worked. He must be in a good mood. Szeth looked up for a moment at the clear blue sky and decided that this was not the worst day. He was Truthless, yes. Exiled, forced to walk the stone far from his homeland, beholden to the whims of each of his capricious masters, made to murder and made to bear the guilt of each death. But not today. Today, no one would ask him to kill.

* * * * *

“It’s an unfortunate truth, boy, that every person is selfish in some way.” Greer didn’t look up from his sewing as he spoke. He seemed to be continuing a conversation he’d stopped several hours ago. He spoke like this often, taking long breaks in conversation then picking right back up where he’d left off. “Every man, woman, and child on Roshar has something they want more than anything else. Something they feel like they’d give anything for.”

Greer held his thread taught and bit through it, eschewing the shears he’d used for the cloth. He knotted it off and then stared hard at Szeth, his bright green eyes drilling into him.

“Everyone has something they want, boy. Almighty send it's not something that leads to others misfortune, but we spend all our lives struggling for those things, each after the other.

“Now you're going to put these on, boy, and then I'll fix up the ends and tell you about the things I wanted. And then you'll tell me what you want. Fair?”

Szeth nodded. He didn’t have a choice. He was Truthless. He could only do what his master commanded. He set aside the sandal he had been weaving and stood, shucking off his shirt and trousers. He found he was glad to see them go, despite the bracingly chill air that always came with the Weeping. They weren’t the worst set of clothes of he’d worn, but he had been wearing them since his flight from the Alethi palace months ago, after he’d been tasked with assassinating the king. Szeth shut his eyes against the memory of crunching bone and grayed flesh, the feeling of a storm trapped underneath his skin, the sound of a man drowning in his own blood. Such memories were merely a part of his burden, his own curse to bear.

The new clothes fit better than Szeth had expected, given that Greer had taken no measurements, although the sleeves and the trouser legs were far too long. Szeth allowed himself to enjoy the feeling of wearing something clean and whole for a moment, then obeyed Greer’s impatient gesture and handed the shirt and trousers back. The old man immediately started hemming one of the sleeves, his crooked fingers still moving with the skill of long practice.

“Melita wasn't much good at sewing, Almighty rest her soul.” Greer’s eyes looked back through the mists of time as he told the tale of his life. 

Szeth did his best to listen to his master’s story while he ground lavis grains into flour, but the more the man spoke the more his story meandered, doubling back on itself and wandering down side paths until Szeth was hopelessly lost. All he knew was that Greer had been a priest of some sort when he was younger, then had fallen in love with Melita. They had run away together to this patch of stone on the edge of the Horneater peaks where they had hoped to be safe from her father's retribution. Melita had died several years ago, and Greer had been farming on his own since then. It was no wonder he looked like he was wearing out.

“There, done,” Greer announced suddenly, ending a story about a particularly lucrative growing season halfway through. “Go and try those on now, son.”

Szeth complied, and found with surprise that the set of shirt and trousers fit him almost perfectly.

“It’ll do,” Greer said, leaning back in his chair and scowling. “Now tell me, what is it that you want?”

Despite the fact that he’d agreed to answer the question earlier, Szeth was caught off guard by it. He was Truthless; he wasn’t meant to want things, just to be a tool for his masters to wield. 

“Honor,” Szeth answered at last.

“What's that now?” Greer demanded, pretending he hadn't heard.

“I want to keep my word,” Szeth elaborated. “To maintain what honor I have left.”

“Honor.” Greer frowned instead of scowling, which was never a good sign.

Szeth gestured towards his oathstone, which was lying on the table next to Greer's dinner bowl. Greer rubbed his beard.

“Honor’s all well and good, son, but honor doesn’t fill your belly. Honor won’t keep you warm at night, or mend your socks, or light up your spheres. At some point, everyone has to leave their honor behind in order to live.

“I’ve done it, highprinces and kings do it… Storms, I’ll bet those same shamans who tied you to that rock have broken with their honor more times than you could count.”

Szeth couldn't help wincing at the blasphemous words. Greer sighed.

“Well, I suppose it’d take more than the word of some old farmer to convince you, eh?”

He settled back in his chair and started cutting up scraps for rags.

“Just don't be surprised someday when what you want changes, boy. Now look sharp and grind that grain!”

* * * * *

Szeth looked down at the sack of lavis seeds Greer had handed him, dumbfounded, listening with half an ear as the man rattled off a list of instructions.

“…and once you have a nice scoop then you plop down a bit of wet cream and you stick a seed in it. And you want to have the thin part sticking- Hey! You listening, lad?”

Greer reached up from where he was crouched down on the stone and swatted at Szeth’s arm. Szeth started as his mind snapped out of its confusion. He looked back at his master, whose eyes almost seemed concerned even with Greer’s ever-present scowl stamped like a mask on his face. 

“You all right boy?” Greer asked. “Yer not sick, are ya?” The man’s rural farmer's accent sounded too thick, forced. It always sounded like that when he realised he’d been using his lecturing voice. 

“I am well,” Szeth replied. Of course he was. He couldn’t get properly sick, or injured, anymore. Once he fell victim to a fever or even a persistent cough his body would act on its own, taking in enough stormlight from whatever spheres were nearby to heal itself. Greer didn’t seem convinced by his answer.

“Hmm…” Greer rubbed at his beard, peering at Szeth with those bright eyes, then heaved himself to his feet. “Why don’t ya give me a demonstration then?”

Szeth obeyed, kneeling down on hard rock. _Blasphemy_.

“First, you make sure that the site is clear of pebbles and debris. Then you carve a depression into the crem layer.” Szeth’s hands carried out the motions of planting that Greer had demonstrated as he spoke. “Take a scoop of the wet crem and place it in the depression.” Szeth dumped a small ladleful of the mineral-rich crem from the year’s first highstorm onto the rock in front of him. “Then you take-” His hands were shaking. Szeth tried again.

“Then you take a seed-” He tried to reach into the bag, tried to pull out a seed, but his hand shook and the bag fell, spilling seeds across the stone.

_Blasphemy blasphemy blasphemy_

_Destroyer_

_Truthless._

Szeth looked down at the lavis grains, feeling dulled. What was he supposed to be doing? A hand clasped him on the shoulder and Szeth followed it upwards until he saw his master’s face. The man was concerned, his scowl nearly forgotten.

“I cannot,” Szeth admitted, staring past Greer at the cloudless blue sky. “I am… not worthy to bring life.”

Greer sighed and settled down on the stone next to Szeth. Blasphemy. The man’s hand was still on his shoulder.

“Look, boy. It’s no different from clearing the field or scraping out the hole. You just…” He trailed off, obviously realizing he wasn’t going to get anywhere with that tactic.

“Now I told you, that first night you were here, that you’d be planting. We’d be bringing a bit of life out of this patch of rock, together. That’s a farmer’s job.

“I don't know what they told you when they gave you that rock, boy, but it doesn’t matter. Whatever you did, whatever crime you’re repenting for or duty you’re fulfilling, it doesn’t matter anymore. You’ve ended up here, in the heralds’ own armpits. you can be done now. You can be free, and they’d never know.”

Szeth sat quietly on the stone. His master’s word might be as law to him, but that didn’t mean he had to believe it.

“Taln’s palms, boy!” Greer cursed. He heaved himself up from where he crouched beside Szeth. _Blasphemy_.

“You’re as stubborn as the rock itself, boy.” Greer paused his lecture to cough. “What will it take for you to see reason? Everyone’s made mistakes - your precious farmers and shamans included. I’ve made my fair share of mistakes, and I’m just lucky my mistakes never hurt anyone but myself. People go around breaking their word, lying to each other - and to themselves, thieving and murdering, and never think twice about it. But storm me ten times over if you’ve ever even considered breaking your word or lying, much less something worse.”

Szeth looked at the stone beneath him. Greer had no way of knowing how wrong he was. Lying? Szeth was Truthless. Something worse? He was an assassin, a murderous weapon in the hands of any who cared enough to discover his abilities. Above him, Greer let out a long-suffering sigh.

“Look, here’s what I’m trying to say. There’s no point in thinking that you can’t plant a seed just because you made a mistake years ago. You’ve paid for that mistake. It’s time to move on.” 

Szeth waited. Finally, Greer cursed again and pulled Szeth’s Oathstone out of his pocket, scowling. Like most of Szeth’s masters, Greer like to keep the Oathstone with him most of the time.

“Have it your way,” Greer said, holding up the Oathstone. “I’ve got your rock, so you have to do what I ask. And I’m asking you to help with the planting.”

Greer turned around and stalked off to the other side of the field. Szeth gathered up the seeds he had spilled and put them back in the sack. He watched his hand insert a likely looking seed into the scoop of crem he’d placed earlier, then he moved on to the next spot. He would do as his master commanded.


End file.
